The Peacemaker
by Shellecah
Summary: Matt must protect an artist from bullies. "Stay away from him. Or you'll answer to me." -Marshal Dillon
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Folks had bedeviled Wes Kenyon from his earliest remembrance despite his fine patrician features, for at thirty-three years of age, he had no notion of how to conceal his mild, guileless nature. Wes had no protective mental wall, and no emotional guard. He'd never learned to wear a forceful, defensive or sanguine mask, move and talk with surety, or in keeping with common social pretense, follow conversational proprieties invented by whoever seized the lead at the moment.

Like hounds scenting blood, bullies saw his vulnerability in his clear brown eyes. Middling height and build, tending to light, Wes made an easy target for men to vent their bile.

No matter where they lived, Wes's wife Shona thought folks always would torment her husband. He painted images that did not exist in the real world, carved and chipped strange shapes from wood and rock, and set up shop with his creations.

Business wasn't good, and folks who did buy rarely paid more than fifty cents. Shona's father sent her a generous allowance every month, and with each check included a letter warning her to divorce her husband before they depleted her inheritance fund.

When the Savannah city council burned Wes's shop to the ground, he and Shona sold the Kenyon family plantation, moved to Dodge City, and bought a house and store building to sell his art.

Matt and Chester visited on the morning The Art Shoppe first opened, as two incidents forebode trouble for Wes. Two drunken cowboys had dragged him out of the Long Branch and dunked him in the trough some nights ago, and a gambler tripped him on the walkway the day he and his wife came to Dodge.

They were alone in the shop when the marshal and Chester arrived. Shona moved forward in friendly greeting, while her husband stood back waiting for them to approach. "You and Chester are welcome, Marshal," said Shona, "but I don't think you're here to buy anything." She was a tall trim woman of thirty years with pleasant exotic features. Framed by thick curly hair, her face was wide across the cheekbones, and her slightly slanting, large dark eyes bright and vital. She had a snub nose, full mouth, and unblemished cream complexion that tanned light-brown in hot weather. "You're here to see no one destroys Wes's art or roughs him up," said Shona.

"They will in time," said Wes from across the shop. "They always do, you know."

Trailed by Chester, Matt moved to Wes. "Well, Wes," said the marshal, "if a man won't stand up for himself around here, he might have a hard time."

"When Wes tries to defend himself, they make it worse for him, Marshal," said Shona. "It's not in him to act vicious for the right to be who he is."

Matt had known men like Wes in Dodge. They either ended up murdered, or fled to escape the hounding that tracked them everywhere.

"We have coffee with brown sugar lumps and cream, and maple cakes," said Shona. "Would you like some."

"It sounds good, Mrs. Kenyon," said Chester.

"Marshal?" said Shona.

"No, thanks."

"Look around, Chester," said Shona. "I'll bring you some coffee and cake."

Matt followed her to the table. "Wes's pictures and carvings could be part of the problem, Mrs. Kenyon," he said, fiddling with his hat. "Folks aren't used to this kind of art. They'll see your husband as a charlatan."

Wes stood behind the counter near the table, and Matt felt awkward talking to Shona about her husband like he wasn't there. Although Wes seemed smart enough, not backward, Matt sensed Shona took the lead, and Wes was comfortable with the arrangement.

"My husband is a visionary, Marshal," said Shona.

"I'm inspired by the English artist Joseph Mallord William Turner, who painted _Rain, Steam and Speed – The Great Western Railway_ ," said Wes, looking earnestly up into Matt's eyes. "Of course, I haven't his talent. One can make out the train and bridge in his painting. I can't draw true-to-life things."

"You've worked hard, though, Wes," said Matt, looking round the shop. "Some folks might take an interest. The Transcendentalist Society, maybe."

Wes nodded seriously. "I'll be happy if they visit our shop, Marshal, even if they don't make a purchase. They're not likely to hit me or bust up my work."

"I'm sure they won't," said Matt.

Shona carried coffee in a china mug and a cake on a matching saucer with a silver fork and linen napkin to Chester, who was examining a hunk of black marble hacked into peaks to resemble a mountain.

"That's very nice, thank you," said Chester.

"I'll set your coffee on the table while you eat your cake," Shona said. "I'm afraid we don't have chairs for our guests to sit."

"This is jest fine," said Chester.

"I'll wager you never saw a shop like this, Chester," said Shona.

"No one in Kansas has," said Wes, "nor the country. I'm the first to set up a shop like this."

"Never seen pictures and carvings like these all my days," said Chester politely.

Wes clasped his hands at his chest and smiled, a dimple creasing each cheek. "I'm a sight pleased if my work elicits profound ideas in your mind, Chester," he said. "That's the reaction I want. My art is not superior or inferior. It has nothing to do with talent, as I haven't any."

Chester looked baffled, and Matt stifled a grin. "Wes means he wants his art to make you think about things," said Shona. "Make you recollect something."

"This one recollects mountain peaks up Colorado way," said Chester.

Wes clapped his hands. _"Excellent,"_ he said. "Let's look at every piece. Tell me what you think, Chester."

"Chester hasn't time for that, Wes," said Shona.

"Oh, I have time, Mrs. Kenyon," said Chester. "Unless you need me for somewhat, Mr. Dillon."

"Go ahead and look around, Chester," said Matt. "I'll take my leave for now, Mrs. Kenyon. Everything is quiet and orderly here. Course nobody's shown up, yet."

"Hopefully, we won't have any rough visitors," said Shona. "Thank you for coming, Marshal."

Matt put on his hat and headed for the door, and almost ran into a man coming in. "Councilman Roman," said Matt.

"Marshal," said Roman. "I'm glad you're here. You can back me up in case that fella puts up any resistance. I don't think he'll give me trouble, though. He's not the type." The councilman removed his hat, uncovering abundant, waving yellow hair silvering at the temples and long on his neck. Chester, Wes and Shona looked at Roman, who strode to Wes. Matt followed.

"Wes Kenyon?" said Roman. Wes nodded. "I'm Councilman Dane Roman."

"It's our opening day," said Wes. "Artists have shops."

Roman's intense cobalt-blue eyes roved the room, his mouth twisting in disgust. "It's bad as I heard," he said. "What kind of folly are you running here, Kenyon."

Wes looked at Matt. "Will you stop him from making us close shop, Marshal?" said Wes. Shona moved to her husband's side.

"That's why I'm here," said Roman. "You're to close this place and move all this junk out of here at once. The council won't tolerate you palming this stuff off, tricking people out of their money."

"Mr. and Mrs. Kenyon own this building and the land it sits on, Councilman," said Matt. "You have no right to tell them to close their shop. And if the council passed a new ordinance dictating what merchants can sell in this town, I'd appreciate it if you let me know before you start throwing around orders."

"We don't need a new ordinance against indecency, Marshal," said Roman. "If he wants to peddle his rubbish, let him move to the back street with the opium dens and ill repute houses."

"That's enough, Roman," said Matt.

"No, it's not enough," said Roman. "If you and my shiftless fellow councilmen refuse to put him out of business, I'll find folks who _will_."

"Roman," said Matt, "you incite a mob, and I'll throw you in jail for breach of the peace. Now, unless you're thinkin' of buying something here, you best be on your way."

"This isn't over, Marshal," said Roman. "Not until this madman is run out of town." He stalked out. Shona put her arm around her husband.

"Don't let Roman scare you," said Matt. "He knows the council will oust him if he doesn't behave himself."

"Wes and I've been through this, before, Marshal," said Shona. "It's what free thinkers face when we're forging new ground."

"Maybe they won't run us out fast as in Savannah, or burn our shop, seeing as you're marshal here," Wes said. "There are no lawmen like you in Savannah."

"I won't let 'em run you out, Wes," said Matt. "And anyone who even pulls out a match in here will go to jail. I don't know about lawmen in Savannah, but we don't hold with that in Dodge."

 _ **C~~~~~**_

"They dunked me in the trough awhile back," Wes said to Chester, as they stood with Kitty at the bar. "They were drunk, then, but not now. It's harder to escape sober men."

With untouched beers in front of them, the two ranch hands sat at a table, staring at Wes and talking in low tones to each other, so no one could hear them.

"I don't like the way they keep lookin' at Wes, Chester," said Kitty. "I wish Matt would come."

"He's on his rounds," said Chester.

"Wes, why don't you wait here, and Chester can find Matt to walk you home," said Kitty.

"I had a beer and chat," said Wes. "I'm ready to go home to my wife."

Holding a whiskey bottle and two glasses, Sam paused on his way along the bar. "You're not wearin' a gun," he said to Wes.

"I don't wear a gun," said Wes.

"You can have a beer on the house if you wait, Wes," said Kitty.

"I must get home to Shona, now. I thank you, Miss Kitty," said Wes, tipping his hat.

"I'll walk with you, Wes," said Chester.

"Tisn't a need, Chester," said Wes. "A man oughtn't take an escort."

"It ain't no escort," said Chester. "It's guardin', passin' one place on to the next. Mr. Dillon does it nights when two fellers like them there bides time to hurt another 'un."

"You've no gun, either," said Wes. "And you can't fight those men like the marshal can."

"Two fightin' two comes off better'n two against one," said Chester.

"Not when I'm one of them," said Wes. "I'm not a fighter. I don't fight. You're borrowing trouble trying to protect me."

Sam paused again on his way back to the other end of the bar. "No harm in trying to defending yourself," he said. "They bother you, just start swingin'."

"I can't," said Wes. "Folks call me a coward. I don't feel so afraid like a coward; I just can't fight." Sam shook his head and moved on.

"No use bickerin', Wes," said Chester. "You won't wait, I'm walkin' with you."

"Be careful, Chester," said Kitty.

Chester close on his heels, Wes walked past the cowboys' table without glancing at them. Chester looked them both in the eyes. "What're you lookin' at," said one.

"Nothin' at all," said Chester.

The January night was dry and windless yet icy cold. Chester and Wes turned up their coat collars and put their hands in their pockets. A moment after they left the Long Branch, the two cowboys stood and pushed through the batwings.

"Sam, did you see that?" said Kitty. "Oh, _where_ is Matt when we need 'im."

One cowboy was big, the other mid-size. They moved fast, closing the distance from Wes and Chester, who heard their boot steps. Chester looked over his shoulder. "They're followin' us," he said. "You best not go home jest yet, Wes, on account of Mrs. Kenyon."

"Yes," said Wes, and stopped.

"What're you stoppin' for," said Chester. "They're most on us."

"I can't run all night," said Wes. "I may as well stand here and wait for 'em. Have done with it."

His eyes narrowing, Chester looked at the approaching men, and back at Wes. "You have ta fight, Wes," Chester said breathlessly, feeling his heart pound his chest bone. "You have to. There's two . . . . One of 'em's big."

"I told you," said Wes. "I told you I couldn't fight, and you came with me anyway."

Chester and Wes faced the cowboys. "You go on," the smaller one said to Chester. "We got no fight with you." Chester said nothing. " _Git,_ " said the cowboy.

"You fight him; fight me, too," said Chester.

The cowboy shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, and swung at Wes. The swing was slow. Chester figured Wes could duck and hit the other man, but Wes stood like a trapped possum, not raising his arms. The blow hit his jaw, and he stumbled.

"This'll be easy," said the cowboy. "You yellow-bellied lunatic mountebank." He put up his fists, and Chester snatched at the man's arms.

"Oh, no, ya don't," said the bigger cowboy. He pulled Chester back, while the other man pummeled Wes's face and ribs.

Chester flailed out of the big man's grip and struck the one beating Wes, just as Wes fell. The smaller cowboy staggered, and the big one hit Chester, knocking him down.

The big cowboy stood over Wes lying on the walk. "Close up that abomination you call a shop," said the man, "or next time, we'll shoot a bullet through your hand. Your paintin' days'll be over." The cowboys walked away.

Chester slowly sat up. "Wes?" he said. He patted Wes's face, and blood from his lower lip touched Chester's hand.

"They're through with me for tonight," said Wes. "If you'll give me a hand up, Chester, I'll go home."

Chester helped him stand. "You should see Doc."

"It's not that bad. Shona will tend me."

"You gotta come to the marshal's office with me," said Chester. "Mr. Dillon looks in after his rounds afore he goes on to his room. You gotta show 'im what them cowboys done to you so's he kin throw 'em in jail."

Wes heaved a tremulous sigh, and Chester cupped his hands around Wes's upper arms. "It's jest down the way a piece," Chester encouraged. "We have some whiskey, get yer strength back."

Wes had a gashed lip, a swelling eye, and tender red spots on his face. Chester gave him a wet cloth for his mouth, and poured him two shots of whiskey in a tin cup.

" 'Spose I could use some, maself," said Chester. "That big feller hit me hard." He poured himself a shot.

Though Wes had drunk beer at the Long Branch, he was clearly not used to whiskey. He swallowed a mouthful, hunched his shoulders, screwed up his face, and coughed.

"You'll feel a heap better in a quick minute," Chester soothed. He and Wes were sitting at the table when Matt rushed in.

"Kitty said two cowboys followed you and Wes out of the Long Branch, Chester," said Matt. "They beat you, Wes, did they?"

"Not so I need to see the doctor," said Wes. "I was throbbing sore right after, but the whiskey dulls it." He gulped another mouthful, and went through the same contortions. "I need only to go home to Shona, Marshal," he said.

"They hit you, too, Chester?" said Matt, frowning at the knuckle marks on his friend's jaw.

"Jest once," said Chester. "They was after Wes. Same two what dunked 'im in the trough. You think that Dane Roman has somewhat ta do with this, Mr. Dillon?"

Matt sat down at the table. "The councilman?" he said. "That doesn't seem likely, Chester. He's forceful, likes giving orders. Roman's threatened folks before; it came to nothing. He knows he'd lose his position on the council if he paid to have a man beaten."

"Sure seems them cowboys is up to more 'cept bein' bullies," said Chester. "They tole Wes to close up his shop, or they'll shoot his hand so he can't paint no more. Them kinda fellers ain't like to think on much but drinkin' 'n cards, gals maybe. They wouldn't know nor care 'bout art, or the virtue of a likeness. They called The Art Shoppe an abomination, Mr. Dillon. Sounds like somethin' Roman would say."

Matt considered. Despite his simplicity and scanty book learning, Chester at times showed flashes of insight that took the marshal by surprise.

Wes loudly slurped the last drops of his whiskey and hiccupped. His normally clear brown eyes were glassy, and he wore a muddled look.

"He had a beer to the Long Branch," said Chester. "He cain't hold nary one taste of strong spirits, maybe. I give 'im two shots fer the pain."

"I'm not quite drunk," said Wes. "I need to go home to Shona. She'll worry."

"You and Chester give me a description of those cowboys, Wes," said Matt. "Then I'll walk you home."

"You gonna jail 'em, Mr. Dillon?" said Chester.

"They're gonna tell me if Roman hired them to beat Wes," said Matt.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Figuring the cowboys might stay in town in case Roman had more henchman work for them, Matt went to the cattle pens, taking Chester with him to identify the men. "That there's them, Mr. Dillon," said Chester, pointing to two men with shovels mucking out an empty corral and tossing the dung into a wheelbarrow.

"Ya sure?" said Matt.

"Yessir. I seen 'em clear last night in the light comin' through the windows, and the moon and stars out. They're the same fellers what was in the Long Branch, starin' at Wes. 'Twas the smaller one done all the hittin'. The big one jest held onto me so's I couldn't help Wes, and when I wrastled outa his hold, he punched me one."

Chester rubbed the sore spot on his jaw, where a purplish-blue bruise had formed. "Poor Wes must be farin' a sight worse'n me," he said. "I hope he lets Doc take a look at 'im."

Chester looked at the marshal, who was scowling at the cowboys. "You gonna thrash them two, Mr. Dillon?" said Chester, his voice hushed. "They got shovels and muck on 'em."

"I don't know, yet, Chester," Matt said tightly. They walked to the pen. The two men stopped their work and looked at the marshal. "Don't run," said Matt. "You won't get far."

"What d'you want, Marshal?" said the smaller cowboy.

"What're your names," said Matt.

"Name's Rafe Pickett. This here's Hank Clay."

"You beat Wes Kenyon last night," said Matt. "No use denying it. Wes and Chester here can identify you."

"We goin' to jail, Marshal?" said Pickett.

"Not if you tell me who hired you to do it," said Matt.

"We'll tell, Marshal," said Clay. "I didn't hit Kenyon none."

"You hit me," said Chester.

"Just once. Once ain't enough for jailin'. That's fightin', not beatin'. Fightin' don't break no laws," said Clay.

"You stopped Chester from defending Wes," said the marshal. "That makes you an abettor, Clay."

"Huh?" said Clay.

"Means you helped so's I could beat him without Chester interferin'," said Pickett. "So you're guilty as me, Hank. Don't try to weasel outa your share of wrongdoin', and don't tell the marshal nothin' just yet.

"If the court subpoenas Hank and me to testify against the fella what paid us, the judge might give us a jail sentence, anyway, Marshal," said Pickett.

"I won't tell the court you did it," said Matt. "You think I will; you're free to leave Dodge. Do this town and yourself a favor. You won't tell me who hired you, I'll arrest you both right now."

"You might arrest us, anyhow," said Pickett. "You might be lyin'."

"I might be," said Matt. "Were I in your boots, Rafe, I'd chance it."

Rafe and Hank grinned. "Just one more thing, Marshal, and Hank and me'll be on our way to Abilene," said Pickett.

"What's that?" said Matt.

Rafe took off his hat and brushed dirt clods from his hair. "Without our testimony," he said, "how'll you jail the fella what hired us?"

"He won't get away with it," said Matt.

Rafe's grin faded as he squinted up at the marshal. "I bet he won't," said the cowboy. "I bet you wanna punch me out, too."

"You're lucky, Pickett," said Matt. "I'm giving you another chance. You'll come by worse than gettin' punched out sometime down the trail if you and Hank here don't mend your ways."

Rafe nodded thoughtfully. "Councilman Dane Roman," he announced, and grinned again. "Ain't that a joke, Marshal?"

" _Hah,"_ said Hank. "It's a dandy _trick_."

"Councilman Dane Roman hired you to beat Wes Kenyon?" said Matt.

"That's right," said Pickett. "Roman said tell Kenyon close up his shop, or we'll do something worse to 'im next time, so I told 'im we'd shoot his paintin' hand."

"Alright," said Matt. "Get out of Dodge. Now."

"We need our boots and clothes cleaned, and a bath," Pickett objected. "It's too cold to wash in the crik."

"You can clean up," said Matt. "Then go."

 _ **M~~~~~**_

"Yonder's Doc," said Chester. _"Doc."_ Doc turned and waited. "Where're you off to, Doc."

"Wes Kenyon's house," said Doc. "I was out all night at the Norris farm. Whole family down with cholera. I got home and found a note Shona slipped under my door. She says Wes was attacked last night."

"I was there when the feller did it, Doc," said Chester. "I tried to stop 'im, but he had a big partner what grabbed me. Times sech as that makes me think on wearin' a gun. I could do ma job better, maybe."

"You did a good job without a gun, Chester," said Matt. "Wes might be more bad off now if you hadn't been with 'im and witnessed it."

"They hit you, too, Chester?" said Doc.

"Jest one punch," said Chester. "It didn't bleed or crack nothin'."

They walked through the gate of a whitewashed fence and along a winding path of cobblestones to the Kenyons' front door. Shona answered Matt's knock. "Marshal," she said. "Oh, good, you've come, Doc. And Chester. Do come in."

They greeted Shona and took off their hats. "Wes wanted to open the shop, but I made him stay in bed," she said. "He can be mule-headed, but he's feeling too poorly to tussle with me. I can give him a lively scuffle even when he's at his best. Our bedroom's upstairs. You and Chester come up, too, Marshal."

Leaning against two goose-feather pillows and wearing a linen nightshirt, Wes sat in bed, his face bruised and puffy. His left eye was blue-black and swollen shut.

"Wes," said Matt.

"Hello," said Wes. "It looks a lot worse than it hurts. Shona knows a fellow's face looks this way the day after he's bested in a fight. It's happened to me more than once."

"That was no fight, Wes," said Shona. "It was a beating. You didn't try to hit that cowboy."

"You know I can't fight," said Wes.

Doc sat on the bed and probed Wes's face. "Can you see out of that eye?" said Doc.

"When it's pried open," said Wes. "It pains me peeling the lids, so I let it stay closed."

"I need to take a look at it, Wes," said Doc. "Make sure nothing's busted in there. It's gonna hurt a little. Look side to side for me. Bloodshot is all. It'll be sore a spell."

"Feel any sharp pains here?" Doc said, pressing Wes's ribs.

"No," said Wes. "They ache a bit."

"What about your belly?" said Doc, probing.

"It's a dull pain in my muscles, there," said Wes.

"Were you sick after?" said Doc.

"No."

"He ate a big breakfast, Doc," said Shona.

"The breakfast set well," said Wes. "I could sleep, now." He yawned.

Doc listened to Wes's heart and took his temperature. "Your temperature's normal and your heart is sound," said Doc. "Rest in bed a coupla days, though. Let your body recover from that pounding."

Doc took two bottles out of his bag. "This is tonic and laudanum, Shona," he said. "Give him the tonic after breakfast and supper, and the laudanum if he needs it for pain. I'll come back morning after tomorrow, Wes. See if you're ready to get up."

"I can't possibly lie abed that long," said Wes.

"You'll do as Doc says. Open your mouth," Shona ordered. She gave him a spoon of tonic.

"I found the man who did this to you, Wes," said Matt. "He and his partner are leaving town."

"You didn't arrest them, then, Marshal," said Shona. "You know best, of course, what's to be done."

"They were paid to do it, Mrs. Kenyon," said Matt. "I said I wouldn't jail them if they told me who hired 'em."

"It was that dreadful councilman, wasn't it," said Shona.

"Yes," said Matt. "Dane Roman."

"Well, of all the . . . . I can't say I'm shocked, by gum," said Doc.

"But you can't jail Roman, Marshal," said Shona. "The only men who can testify against him won't be here."

Matt shifted his boots, looked at Wes's swollen face, and gazed at his hat in his hands. He had big hands, not that big for his height, though. And Roman was built stronger than Wes. A man Wes's size—fine-boned face and middling to thin—suffered more from a beating.

"Marshal," said Shona.

Matt looked into her penetrating, bright dark eyes. Wes had gone to sleep, and Chester and Doc were staring at the marshal, who rarely hesitated so long when spoken to. Matt hadn't just hesitated; he'd drifted off, which he almost never did.

"You're going to fight Roman, aren't you," said Shona.

"I might have to," said Matt.

"Wes would object?" said Doc.

"Not particularly," said Shona.

"Would you like some coffee," she said, leading the way downstairs. "I have blueberry muffins fresh made."

"I have to be going, Shona," said Doc. "I've some calls to make."

"I can't stay, either, thanks, Mrs. Kenyon," said Matt.

Chester had liked Shona's cake at The Art Shoppe. It wasn't lunchtime yet and he wanted a muffin, but thought asking for one to carry out would be impolite.

"Wait just a moment, Chester," said Shona. "I'll give you some muffins to take with you."

"Oh, well, thank you, Mrs. Kenyon," said Chester, "but . . . I . . . ." He looked at Matt.

"Alright, Chester," said the marshal. "I won't need your help with Roman."

Dane Roman Enterprises stood between an assessor's office and a cattle buyer's building, on a street bustling with wagons, buggies, riders and crowded walkways on both sides. Men and women milled around the ground floor and lined up behind desks, where clerks waited on them.

Matt climbed the stairs, walked to Roman's office at the end of the corridor, and opened the door without knocking. Roman sat at his desk before a large window, the sun shining through the glass on his butter-colored hair.

His vivid blue eyes sparking, Roman looked up from a ledger and glowered at Matt. "Just what do you think you're doing," said Roman. "When you come to this office, you knock first. I don't care if you are the marshal.

Close that door," he commanded. Matt looked around the office, his gaze briefly resting on Roman's Peacemaker in the gunbelt draped over a peg on a coat stand near the door.

"Why are you looking at my gun, Marshal? Do you intend to challenge me to a duel?" Roman sneered. "Are you hard of hearing? I said close the door."

The marshal moved to the desk and loomed over Roman. "Shut up," said Matt.

The councilman gaped, then pushed back his chair and jumped up, glaring fiercely. With broad shoulders and a solid frame in the mid range, Roman was about seven inches shorter than Matt.

Wes's bruised face flashed through Matt's mind, and he felt unexpectedly queasy at the thought of hitting Roman. The marshal reminded himself that more often than not, the only way to stop a bully was to bully him.

Perplexity smoothed the anger from Roman's face as he looked at Matt. "What's going on, Marshal," he said.

"I talked to Pickett and Clay," said Matt.

Roman blanched and supported himself on the desk. He looked at Matt, speechless, and suddenly the marshal knew what to say. "You don't want to go to jail, Roman, you want to keep your position on the council, leave Wes Kenyon alone," said Matt. "Don't make trouble for his shop, and what you did to him stays between us. Hound him again and I'll throw you in jail, and the town will know."

Roman thought on it, frowning, then his eyes squinted in suspicion. "Why would Pickett and Clay tell you who hired them," he said. "Will you close that door? _Please._ " Matt closed the door. "Ruffians like them would want . . . more work," Roman said. "From . . . whoever it was hired 'em."

"They wanted their freedom more," said Matt. "They're headed for Texas."

"Then they can't testify against me," said Roman.

"No," said Matt, "but Chester, Wes and Shona and I can. We heard you threaten Wes at his shop, Councilman. That, and the cowboys' confession to me, will get you a jail sentence sure, and the council will expel you."

Roman gulped. "If I let Kenyon alone, you'll say nothing . . . of any dealings . . . Pickett and Clay claimed I had with them? You'll give me your word? We surely have our differences, but you are a man of your word, Marshal. That much I know."

"I won't say anything about it," said Matt, "so long as you hold up your end of the bargain." He saw no need to mention he'd already told Wes and Shona, Doc and Chester. Matt would tell them not to spread it around.

"Then it's done," said Roman. He dropped into his seat and ran a shaky hand over his hair. "For an honest man, you can be shrewd, Marshal. I didn't know you had it in you."

"Neither did I," Matt muttered.

"What?"

"You mean, you thought you could get away with paying to have a man attacked and hounding him into closing his business," said Matt. "Not in Dodge, Councilman. Remember that."

"Yes, yes," said Roman. "If there's nothing else."

Matt opened the door, glancing again at Roman's Peacemaker in the gunbelt hanging on the coat stand. The stairway was chilly, and the marshal rubbed his hands together, keenly aware of their strength.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"I'd like to take Wes for a beer when he's feelin' better, Mrs. Kenyon."

"I suppose that'd be alright with Wes," said Shona.

"At the Long Branch?" said Wes.

"At the Long Branch," said Matt.

"Beer's better than whiskey," said Wes.

When Matt returned to the Kenyon house two days later after dinner, Wes was dressed in a fine wool suit, the swelling in his face gone down and the bruises faded.

"I calculated you'd come today, Marshal," said Wes. "Doc was here this morning and said I could get up."

"Don't you drink more than two beers," Shona admonished her husband.

"He gets drunk if he has more than two," she explained to Matt.

"Wes and I are blessed to set up shop in a town with a _smart_ lawman, for a change," said Shona. "You're helping Wes so, fixing things wonderfully, Marshal. I see why there's order in Dodge, lively as it is. You reason things through instead of charging around fighting and shooting up the town, like some lawmen."

Matt led Wes across the streets and through the passages between buildings, so they walked most of the way on Front Street, which bustled with folks coming in and out of Dodge House and Delmonico's, and men going to play pool and to the Long Branch. A lot of them looked curiously at Wes walking with the marshal.

"Marshal?" said one man. "He a friend of yours?" Others stopped to listen.

"He is," said Matt. "This is Wes Kenyon. He and his wife just opened an art shop."

"It was closed two days," said Wes. "We will open again tomorrow."

"I seen the place," said another man. "Fine new building called just that. The Art Shoppe."

"Isn't your wife Shona Kenyon?" said a woman, holding her husband's arm.

"Yes, ma'am," said Wes.

"Why, I met her at the dressmaker's," said the woman. "Such a pleasant lady, and so pretty."

"Shona's my inspiration," said Wes. "I can do nothing without her."

"What a lovely thing to say about one's wife," said the woman.

"Well, folks won't trouble _you_ , anymore, young man," said an older gentleman. "Word spreads fast in this town. Folks know better than to bother the marshal's friends, ain't that so, Matt?"

"Wes and I are goin' for a beer," said Matt. "We'll see you folks later."

Walking through the batwings ahead of Matt, Wes smacked into a gambler named Monty Decker, who looked like he'd had a run of bad luck. Reeking of whiskey, he didn't notice the marshal.

" _Why, you,"_ Decker grated, and grabbed Wes's coat lapels.

"Let 'im go, Monty," said the marshal.

Decker shoved Wes back against Matt. _"There ya go,"_ Monty spat.

He thrust his head forward, peering intently at Wes. "Hey," said the gambler. "You're that odd duck what fell over my boot the other day. I told ya ta stay outa my way then, and I _meant_ it."

"He tripped me purposefully," Wes said to Matt.

"He tripped me purposefully," Monty echoed, imitating Wes's Georgia drawl.

"Leave 'im be, Decker," said Matt. "You put hands on him again, I'll bust your hide. Go home." Matt stepped close to the gambler.

"Easy, easy. I'm _goin'_." Monty walked unsteadily away.

"Come on, Wes," said Matt.

"Sounded like that Monty Decker give you and Wes some trouble out there, Mr. Dillon," said Chester, who sat at a table with Doc and Kitty. "I was fixin' to go out and see if you needed me."

"That's alright, Chester," said Matt. "Monty didn't get past bluster.

"Hello, Kitty. Doc. I brought Wes in for a beer."

A polished bur oak carving sat in the middle of the table. "It makes an interesting centerpiece, don't you think?" said Kitty.

"You bought a carving from my shop, Miss Kitty," said Wes, smiling so dimples creased his face.

"I went to visit Shona, yesterday," said Kitty. "You were upstairs sleeping, Wes. I told her I wanted a carving that'd get folks talking. I thought it might be good for my business here. Shona opened The Art Shoppe 'specially for me, and I picked this out."

"That's a good piece for talking," said Wes. "At sociables and the like. Shona and I never could think of a name for it."

Matt and Wes sat down at the table. _"Two beers, Sam,"_ Kitty called.

Matt lifted the carving, turning it in his hands. The size of a man's hat, the tan wood darkened from oiling, it was a jumble of rounded shapes in different sizes, and soft-edged pyramids and spears.

"What is—. What does it . . . represent?" said Matt.

"It's whatever you see at the time, Marshal," said Wes.

"You don't say," said Doc. "Real sick fella come to me once; I cut out his—"

" _Doc,"_ said Kitty.

"Well, maybe not," said Doc. "Ya know, that might be a quarry, by golly. A rock pit, or blasted mine. Just the thing."

" _Splendid,"_ said Wes. "It takes wit to think of that, Doc."

"A quarry," said Chester. He tilted his head. "I don't know, Doc."

"You don't know what," said Doc.

"It don't look like no pile of rocks ta me."

"What does it look like to you, then, you know so much about it," said Doc.

"Waal, now, Doc, don't get tetchy," said Chester. "I said I don't know."

Sam appeared at the table and set two beers in front of Matt and Wes. "What on earth is that?" said Sam.

"Wes made it," said Matt.

"That so," said Sam.

Kitty took the carving from Matt and handed it to Sam. "Set it on the end of the bar, will you, Sam?" said Kitty. "Anyone asks about it, tell 'em they can see even stranger things at Wes Kenyon's art shop."

"Yes, please do, Sam," said Wes. "I celebrate strangeness."

"If they throw it around, I'll put an end to the art society in here," said Matt.

"They better not," said Kitty. "I paid sixty-five cents for it."

"I lot of folks hate my work," said Wes. "They burn and break it, and slash it with knives. I haven't much hope for it in a saloon."

"That won't happen in Dodge, Wes," said Matt.

"I don't think the fellas at the bar will break this when they find out Wes Kenyon carved it," said Sam. "They're saying how Wes is a good friend of yours, Marshal."

"Folks won't devil you no more, Wes," said Chester. "They don't me."

"Now, that's truth and no mistake, by golly," said Doc. "We can drink to that one."


End file.
